


Dying should feel gentler.

by DitescoMori



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DitescoMori/pseuds/DitescoMori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me something about you,” his voice is quiet as the storm rages on, slivers of snow cutting the unexposed flesh of his cheeks. This is a dying man’s request and he appeals to that fact so he will know more about the totem of the woman she is. He knows the range of green her eyes are capable of harnessing, the gentleness she is capable of reflecting in them during the summer mornings, and the assertiveness that lingers as she pulls the trigger of a gun. He knows the language of her nightmares as the Russian announces her inevitable waking up, cold sweat dotting her forehead and the name of the ghosts dying in that scream caught in her throat. He knows there is everything to know of her, but at the same time it is not enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying should feel gentler.

Dying should feel gentler.

Still, he can feel the cold in his bones, the temperature of his body leaving him along with every breath his lungs relinquish. Only his right arm, the one she leans against, feels warm. His attention focuses entirely on the radiating heat.

She is quiet. And shaking, but he knows it is not out of fear. In their line of work, going like this should be a blessing. He has known men to fall in enemy lines and endure torture and misery before being put out.

“Tell me something about you,” his voice is quiet as the storm rages on, slivers of snow cutting the unexposed flesh of his cheeks. This is a dying man’s request and he appeals to that fact so he will know more about the totem of the woman she is. He knows the range of green her eyes are capable of harnessing, the gentleness she is capable of reflecting in them during the summer mornings, and the assertiveness that lingers as she pulls the trigger of a gun. He knows the language of her nightmares as the Russian announces her inevitable waking up, cold sweat dotting her forehead and the name of the ghosts dying in that scream caught in her throat. He knows there is everything to know of her, but at the same time it is not enough.

She stirs, uncomfortable, but he uses the movement to his advantage as he moves closer to her. He can hear her heartbeat below the layers of isolating clothing. He hears it skip when he stops breathing for a moment.

“I hate blue,” she curtly answers all too unsure if that is the answer he is looking for. 

He snorts, “Is that why you never wear the sapphire earrings I got you for Christmas?”

“Those weren’t sapphires, Barton, they ripped you off. And that is not why I don’t use them. I don’t like Christmas either.”

He coughs up some blood, staining the sleeve of her white jacket, “Did Santa leave coal for you once?” He asks, loyal to his curt and dry sense of humor even in his last hours.

“No. It is just that… I was born in Christmas.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, stirring until his head falls on the nook of her elbow as his eyes close. “I should have known that. I guess I will just give you a better present next time.”

“Next time you just take care of the food,” She answers simply, holding him close to her, and he can hear her heart skip another beat as the sound of his broken laughter rings quietly through the snowstorm.


End file.
